There was another long-drawn-out howl from across the way and Gervase felt it like a stab in his chest.
Now Gervase knew why Samson had been so keen to lead the attack against Athelhard. Since Gunilda’s visit, he knew everything. Oh, yes! He knew that Samson had molested his own daughter, and others. It was Samson who got Aline with child, and just as surely he had killed her and the others too. Samson atte Mill was the vampire.
It all made sense now. With a resolute air, the Parson stood and picked up his mazer, then refilled it. Lifting it, he toasted God in an almost heretical manner, bitterly angry to have been forced to cause the death of a man like Athelhard for no reason. Then he opened his mouth and tipped in the wine. It was cheap and rough, but it was enough to strengthen his resolve. He was a failure as a priest, he had failed his congregation, he had failed Athelhard, and he had failed God. That was the cause of the noise at the cemetery: Samson’s unresting soul. His dogs knew, which was why they howled. And Gervase knew, which was why his spine tingled with fear.
Samson’s body was in thrall to demons. That was obvious, because he had killed Emma after his own death. Now Gervase must free Samson from the demons which possessed him. Throw them out and allow Samson to lie in peace . . . and protect the other folk of the vill.
The wine had given him courage and now he felt he could face Samson’s ghost. He knew what he must do. On his table was his scrip, and he opened it, studying the small piece of paper and the phial. Satisfied with both, he carefully tied the scrip by its two leather thongs to his belt and took up his staff.
With a deep breath, he threw open the door. Outside, the wind was blowing steadily from the moors, and the air was thick with mizzle. Tiny droplets of rain landed softly on his bared breast, but he didn’t care.
The hounds sounded more mournful out here in the open, their voices shuddering on the wind as though they were calling in desperation to their master, begging him to come back. Now that his decision had been made, Gervase felt calm. The indecision of the last couple of days had sapped his strength and now that he had chosen the route he must take, his soul was strengthened.
Squaring his shoulders, he set off to Swetricus’s house. He hammered on the door with his clenched fist, waiting for it to be opened. When it wasn’t, he struck the door with his staff and called out, ‘Swet, you miserable cur, open up! It’s me, Gervase, your Parson.’
There was no reply, and then he heard the slow scrape of the wooden latch being lifted. The door opened a little and a suspicious eye peered out at him.
‘Swet, you’ve heard him too, haven’t you? Fetch a shovel. We have work to do.’
Felicia shivered as her mother paced back and forth in the mill. The hounds were still calling, as if they could sense the approach of some foul creature from the moors. Perhaps it was true, what she had been told when she was a child, that devils lived out on the moors, and that they would torment the men and women who lived on the fringes.
‘Mother, won’t you come to bed?’ she called again. She had already lost count of the number of times she had asked her mother to join her on their palliasse, but Gunilda didn’t seem to hear her. Dark shadows under cheekbones and eyes made her look gaunt, almost as though she was herself dead.
‘He’s coming. I can hear him,’ she said, and laughed.
It was a terrible sound, and Felicia gasped with horror. Her mother was going mad, and she felt that she must surely follow. This constant walking up and down, staring out through the open windows down at the cemetery, was petrifying.
‘We did our best, we did, but he’s coming back. I can hear him, just like the dogs can. Samson wants you again. We can’t let him have you, though. No, never again.’ Gunilda walked to the family’s chest. It was a rickety old thing, ancient and wormeaten, but it was the only secure container. Reaching inside, she brought out a long-handled knife. Then she went back to the door, chuckling to herself.
‘Yes, my lover. You hurt us, oh so often, and you want to hurt us again, but now you’ve gone I won’t let you back. I only have Felicia, and I won’t let you harm her again.’
Swetricus was breathing heavily as he pulled off his leather jerkin and hefted his great shovel. He was aware of a sick feeling in his belly, but it was no good. He had to go ahead. He had no choice, not if his girls were to be safe. Unless he helped the Parson, his other daughters might be killed like Aline.
He gazed at the white features of the Parson, then up towards the cemetery and the howling dogs, and as he did so, clouds passed over the moon. The mizzle stopped and a thin rain fell, and the cemetery was hidden. When the clear light shone out once more, the rain suddenly stopped, and he almost expected to see a ghostly figure standing there by Samson’s grave, wrapped in a white shroud. It was with enormous relief that he saw the place was deserted.
‘Come, my friend. We have to do this now,’ said Gervase.
‘When I’ve fetched Henry.’
‘There’s no time.’
‘I’m not leaving my girls alone,’ Swetricus said with blunt finality. Gervase could see the determination in his eyes, and nodded. Together they walked to Henry Batyn’s house.
Henry lived with Peter atte Moor since his own house had collapsed, and it was Peter who opened the door. ‘What do you want, Parson?’
‘Look after Swet’s girls. We’re going to destroy him.’
Peter blinked. ‘Who?’
Swetricus answered. ‘It was Samson. He killed Aline, and your Denise and Mary and Emma. We’re going to kill him.’
‘He won’t persecute us any longer,’ the Parson said confidently.
Peter gaped. Then, ‘Bring the girls here, Swet. Henry will guard them and I’ll come with you.’
‘Good,’ said Swetricus, and returned to his own little place. Soon they could hear him calling his daughters over the whistling of the wind.
‘First, I’m going to find Drogo,’ Peter continued, tugging on his jack.
‘No. We have to strike him while we can.’
Peter looked at the Parson. ‘You’ll need torches,’ he said. ‘I know where to get some.’
‘Forget them. We don’t need them.’
‘If you’re right and he killed my Denise, I want to see his face,’ Peter hissed, leaning close, so that his own face was scant inches from Gervase’s. ‘This turd killed my daughter, Parson, and he ate her. I want to see him dance as we kill him.’
‘Oh, get the torches, then, but hurry!’ Gervase said reluctantly.
Peter nodded, then set off purposefully for the vill. He passed Swetricus, who ushered his girls into Peter’s house. Henry stood with his wife and sat the girls at the fireside. ‘I’m coming too,’ he declared.
‘You should guard the girls,’ Swetricus growled.
‘If he can escape you, they’ll not be safe with me looking after them,’ Henry said simply. He reached behind the door and selected a shovel.
It was only a short walk, but even in the time that it took to get to the cemetery gate they could see other men gathering in the road by the inn. They gripped torches, the flickering yellow flames flattening and dancing in the gusting wind. Some stood nervous and uncertain, fearing to follow their Parson, but then the crowd began to move towards the cemetery.
Gervase felt better than he had for a long time. The howling ceased to trouble him now that he was fixed upon a course of action; the wine he had drunk had left him feeling clear-headed and warmed, as though God had breathed determination into his very bones. In truth, he felt as though he was at last performing God’s will. After so many years of blaming himself for Athelhard’s death, he knew what he must do. It was so refreshing, he almost felt he could sing and dance in praise of God.
‘Give me strength, Lord, to do Your will,’ he breathed, and began to sing the Pater Noster.
Behind him, Swetricus and Henry strode silently, not exchanging a glance, only keeping their eyes fixed firmly on the graveyard. They passed through the gate, and set off behind the Parson
, heading for Samson’s grave, and it was there that they saw her.
Dressed in tatters, the clothing ripped from her body, shreds flapping in the wind, she was recognisable as Gunilda only from her thickset body. She knelt at the grave of her husband, raking her hands through the sodden soil, then beating at it with her hands. As they approached, they could hear her.
‘Shut up! Shut up! You killed them all – aren’t you content? Can’t you leave us alone? You would have done it to Felicia again, wouldn’t you? But I won’t let you. You couldn’t keep away even when you were dead, could you? You had to come back and kill Emma. Why can’t the devil take you? Shut up!’
Swetricus glanced at the priest, but Gervase was standing and swaying as though to music only he could hear, a beatific expression on his face. Grunting, the peasant stabbed his shovel into the soil and took Gunilda’s arm. He lifted her to her feet, and she stood alarmed, cowering at the sight of the men converging on the grave.
‘It wasn’t my fault! He killed them, but I didn’t know it. I didn’t . . . I’m so sorry, so sorry! And now he’s coming back to take her from me! He wants Felicia!’
Gervase smiled, then stopped her mouth with his hand. ‘Child, it wasn’t your fault, nor was it mine. This is the devil’s work, and his minions are among us.’ He jabbed a finger down at the ground even as the vill’s men arrived, the torches casting a lurid light over them all. ‘Friends, listen to me! The man we knew as Samson was the killer of our children. He killed Denise, he killed Aline, he killed Mary, and last night he killed Emma!’
There was a low hiss from the crowd, then an intake of breath.
‘Yes! I say he killed Emma too. He has been taken over by demons, and we must exorcise them. Men! Dig, dig down into his grave, and bring out his body. I must lay this holy message on his breast, and then his soul will be free. He will never come back to trouble us. We can save him – we must save his soul. It is God’s will!’
Leaving the house, Coroner Roger winced as he put weight on his ankle. ‘This is not getting any better – and keep your damned dog away. Moth-eaten mutt nearly tripped me!’
‘Put your hand on my shoulder,’ Baldwin said. ‘What are those hounds crying for?’
‘God knows,’ the Coroner said. He was glad to be leaving Alexander’s depressing room. It aped a great lord’s hall, but after today it would only have the feel of a gaol for him. Seeing Alexander sitting at his table, a broken man, had touched a nerve in Roger’s heart. It was terrible to see a man at bay in his own home.
‘The place needs a woman’s hand,’ Baldwin continued, seeing the Coroner’s expression. ‘It reminds me of my own hall before I married. Something is missing, some spark of life or joy.’
‘You think a woman adds joy?’
‘Some women do,’ Baldwin smiled contentedly.
‘Wait until you have been married as long as me before you make another comment like that,’ the Coroner said. ‘You’ll realise your error. Isn’t that right, Bailiff ?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Wake up, Simon! Aren’t you listening? We were talking about women and—’
‘You were thinking the same? A woman could have done it?’
Baldwin caught his tone. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The deaths: Athelhard was killed wrongly because the vill took against him, and then the girls started to die. Couldn’t Meg have decided to take revenge?’
Baldwin snorted. ‘And what of Denise? She died before Athelhard; that was why the people decided to execute Athelhard in the first place.’
‘True, and of course Ansel de Hocsenham was already dead as well,’ Simon said. ‘But Meg could have killed them too!’
‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said without conviction. He asked Roger, ‘What did you think of the Reeve’s story?’
‘I have to confess that I found it believable.’
Simon grunted. ‘Up until now I was happy to believe that the Forester or the Reeve could have killed the Purveyor, but I think you’re right. Their denials were convincing.’
‘I had thought that the death of the Purveyor was separate, but as I said after we met Meg, what if his death was the first in a sequence?’ Baldwin said, and now there was a growing excitement in his voice. ‘Now we know that he too was murdered and eaten. Surely he must have been killed by the same person.’
‘Why would the guilty person kill a man and then go on to slaughter children?’ Simon asked. ‘Ah! Perhaps because the first was an opportunistic murder, trying to stop the hated tax-gatherer from thieving the vill’s money, and the killer didn’t want to waste the flesh. He was starving, so he cut some portions to eat. Learning the meat was good, he killed again, and then even after the famine was done, he had a taste for human flesh.’ He shivered at the thought.
‘It is a possibility,’ Baldwin said. ‘But we also have the strange fact of Aline’s concealment. Why should someone hide her when all the other victims were left in plain view?’
‘If it was someone who knew her well, perhaps it was to give her the merest imitation of a church burial?’ Simon suggested.
‘Someone who cared that much surely would have found a different victim,’ Baldwin said. ‘No, I think it must have been for a different reason. Maybe the killer was anxious about being discovered. Or could it have been done to offend someone – the girl’s father, for instance? To hurt his feelings, or to leave him in pain. Or maybe it was just punishment of the girl?’
‘Did anyone have a motive for the murders?’ Simon said. ‘I’ve always tried to see who might have made money or got some other benefit from a crime, but in this case where is the motive?’
‘There is always a motive, no matter how obscure,’ Baldwin said with conviction.
Coroner Roger grimaced as his bruised foot caught on a tussock of grass. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I have known men to kill because they disliked another’s eye colour; to show that they were men; to impress women . . . and so on. There is always a reason, if you could but see it.’
Simon held out his hands in a gesture of bafflement. ‘But what could the motive be in this case?’
Baldwin was silent a moment. He was watching a crowd gather outside the inn. ‘Let us walk on. Those men look boisterous. Now,’ he continued as they left Alexander’s house behind them, ‘The first death, that of Ansel de Hocsenham, may have been an accident.’
‘The Purveyor was hated by all about here,’ Simon reminded him. ‘Perhaps he was killed because of that hatred, or maybe he saw something . . .’
Baldwin agreed. ‘Let us suppose he was not only seen by someone who hated him, but that his killer was also starving. Perhaps the two motives came together.’
‘What of the girls?’ Simon said. ‘Do you think he got a taste for the flesh of humans?’
‘Perhaps. But I think it is more than that. Most of his victims were young girls. Children. All of about eleven years of age. That is curious. Surely it was a man trying to gain power over those weaker than himself. Any man could go and make use of a tavern’s whores if he needed, so was this a man who had no money, or was it a man who felt threatened by women – so threatened that he sought to take them by force?’
‘But he didn’t take women,’ Coroner Roger scoffed.
‘No,’ said Simon with dawning understanding. ‘He took the only women he could, young girls who knew little better, who couldn’t physically protect themselves against him.’
‘So we have a weakly man,’ Baldwin said, ‘who was extremely poor during the famine and couldn’t afford food, nor did he have any growing at his home.’ He curled his lip. It was not convincing.
‘At least that means we should be able to free some people from suspicion,’ Coroner Roger said.
‘Yes,’ Simon said. ‘And the more the better.’
‘Listen to those blasted hounds!’ Coroner Roger burst out. ‘Why are they still making that infernal racket?’
Baldwin cast an eye up towards the mill. ‘They miss their mas
ter.’
‘A dog would usually have got over the death of a master by now.’
‘Shall we see if there’s something else wrong, then?’ Baldwin enquired.
Simon looked from one to the other. ‘I suppose you want to walk through the bloody graveyard to get to them? After all, what could be more pleasant on a chill and damp evening than a wander among rotting corpses. There’s only your wife, Baldwin, and mugs of hot spiced wine waiting for us in the tavern; nothing to hurry back for.’
‘You don’t have to join us,’ Baldwin said mildly.
‘Ah, bugger it! If we’re going to take a look, let’s get on with it,’ Simon said, and began to march towards the mill and the howling dogs – although Baldwin noted that he skirted the cemetery and didn’t attempt to walk through it.
Aylmer sprang on ahead, but it was not easy for the men, especially for the hobbling Coroner. Although the day had been mostly dry, there had been enough drizzle during the evening to fill the puddles and make the mud even more thick and glutinous than before. Roger tried to hop between the ruts, but it was not easy because carts had created hard rails of rock-like dried mud which wouldn’t soak up moisture so speedily, and he found himself slipping and swearing as he made his way to the source of the noise.
The mill was in darkness, and as the three approached, the wind seemed to grow in strength. Simon could hear a large piece of cloth flapping. It sounded like the wings of an enormous bird or bat, a bizarre, unwholesome sound, and he wished that he could silence it, but he couldn’t see where it came from. Probably a length of sacking covering a window, he thought.
Just then, the moon was covered again and the yard became utterly dark. A few heavy drops of rain fell and Simon muttered another curse, hunching his head down between his shoulders, as though that could help, but then the moon was free again, and suddenly he felt his fears leaving him. There was no need to worry about spirits in a place like this. The mill was open to view, and there was not the slightest space for a man or ghost to hide.
The Sticklepath Strangler (2001) Page 31